Wednesday, May 7, 2014


The other thing that comes up
Out of the depths of nonconsciousness,
Is nothing so Freudian nor even
Helmholtzian, William Jamesian
As all that. It's an argument.
It's the argument of arguments,
The principal business of whatever
Part of whomsoever isn't directing
Movements and assessments
In the theater of quarrel, where
The regurgitating brain, sick
Of enculturation and social
Regulation, heaves a dark yawn.
I loathe the habit, but I'm a wimp
Whimpering against it. I win
Another imaginary debate
With my imaginary stalking
Horses or worse, again and again,
But the swirl of the words
In the theater doesn't belong to me,
Nor their victories. The beast
Rises from the deep to claim
For its imaginary maw each time
Imaginary victims.

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